Harbinger Of Glory

Early, the next morning, the sound of Leo’s trainers hitting the treadmill belt was the only sound heard in the gym.

At first, his pace was unhurried, more like a jog meant to shake loose the stiffness from last night’s late workout.

His breathing came even and controlled, his mind somewhere else.

Then, with a few taps on the screen, he upped the speed.

The treadmill whined louder as his body adjusted, legs now pumping at the kind of rhythm he used when covering ground in a match, imagining scenarios in his head as he continued to up the ante.

He added bursts to his run, thirty seconds flat out, then easing off before going on another surge.

The treadmill groaned under the sudden changes, but Leo relished the burn in his thighs, the hammering of his chest.

This was what the pitch felt like, the ebb and flow between steady running and explosive sprints.

He kept at it until sweat clung to his shirt, darkening the fabric, before finally slowing the machine down to a gradual stop.

He stepped off, grabbing a towel draped over the handle before he dragged it across his forehead, down the back of his neck, then slung it over his shoulder as he made his way to one of the benches lined against the mirrored wall.

He looked around at the gym, only spotting the cleaners that had just exited aside his reflections in the windows.

After his breaths slowed enough, he reached for his phone resting on his gym bag and unlocked it with the lazy swipe of someone already half-drained.

A few notifications blinked at the top of the screen, but he scrolled past them, opening a news feed instead.

The first headline caught his eye:

”World Cup Fever: Three Weeks to Qatar’s Kick-Off.”

A glossy graphic of players draped in national kits sat above the text.

Leo tapped into it, skimming through paragraphs about squads being finalised, stars preparing for their last dance and dark horses looking to upset the odds.

He sat there for a while before his lips twisted into a faint smile, and a chuckle escaped.

”Nahhhh,” he muttered, shaking his head as a laugh slipped out at his own expense.

He leaned back against the bench, phone balanced in his palm.

”Haven’t even broken into the starting lineup properly, and I’m here thinking about the World Cup.”

The irony of it sat on his tongue for a moment, bittersweet but oddly motivating.

He could picture himself in one of those graphics one day, maybe years from now, his name printed bold beneath a national crest.

With a small sigh, he muttered under his breath, ”Still... would be nice to play in one someday.”

The thought lingered, stubborn as a shadow, even as he locked the screen and set the phone back down on his bag.

He rolled his shoulders next, stood, and walked over to the free weights, wrapping his hand around the cool metal of a kettlebell, and with a sharp breath, he hoisted it up, muscles tightening as he sank into the next part of his routine.

Outside the glass doors, the corridor lights hummed faintly.

Out there, Nolan had just finished a walk-through of the building, his shoes clicking softly against the tiles.

He stopped by one of the cleaning staff, a woman folding her cart back into position by the wall.

”All finished in here?” Nolan asked, his tone warm but perfunctory, the kind of voice worn smooth by habit.

The cleaner smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead.

”Yes, sir. All tidied. That kid is even working.” She tilted her chin toward the gym doors.

”That kid,” Nolan muttered questioningly, before he nodded to the cleaner in thanks, then turned on his heel and made for the door.

The handle clicked under his grip as the door swung open with the soft groan of hinges, with the sound of treadmills and weights inside spilling into the corridor.

Nolan stepped in, his eyes adjusting to the dimmer light, before sighing.

”Of course,” Nolan muttered under his breath, the words coming out half as an exhale, half as something between annoyance and admiration.

In the middle of the floor, Leo came into view, framed against the long mirror.

His head was bent slightly forward, shoulders gleaming with sweat, both hands locked tight around the kettlebell as he drove through another set.

He hadn’t noticed Nolan yet, too deep in his rhythm, too wrapped in that single-minded tunnel that came with work nobody else was watching.

The assistant coach lingered just a second longer by the doorway, the faintest shake of his head betraying his thoughts, before taking a slow step back outside.

By the time the clock nudged past two, the complex had shaken off its morning hush.

The players were now back in the main complex after their recovery session at noon, but the mood was still a bit sobby, perhaps because of the draw against Millwall.

And also, because they knew what was coming at them as they made their way towards the tactical room.

Once near, the players made their way into the open and familiar, slightly stuffy space of rows of staggered seating sloping down toward the front, where a wide screen and whiteboard stood waiting.

Dawson and Nolan were already there.

Dawson sat on one of the front stools, posture sharp and hands clasped, while Nolan leaned slightly back on his, eyes flicking over a small notebook in his lap.

The players trickled in and filled the seats, the room buzzing with low murmurs until the last couple shuffled through and the door shut.

That was Dawson’s cue.

He waited until the sound of players, finding their most comfortable spot, ceased, scanning the room with that deliberate stillness of his when he wanted, and then he spoke.

”Yesterday,” he began, voice soft like he was hurt, ”was supposed to be straightforward. A vital win, yet an easy one, in fact. Millwall sat twenty-second. They were there for the taking. And yet, ” He let the pause sit, heavy enough to drag every gaze toward him. ”,we’re sitting twelfth this morning. Not tenth. Not eleventh. Twelfth.”

A couple of players shifted in their seats.

Leo caught the flicker of a frown on McClean’s face, the way Power leaned forward just slightly, elbows on his knees.

”We cannot afford mistakes like that,” Dawson pressed on, his voice gathering weight.

”Not this early. Not ever. What I saw yesterday was complacency... bloated confidence from a decent run of form, and it crept in yesterday, costing all of us.”

He gestured toward the screen, where a frozen frame from the game glared back at them.

There, Millwall players were pressing forward, Wigan shirts scrambling to reorganise.

Dawson rose, his stool scraping back.

”Now, I thank the stars this lesson came in October and not in March. Because if it happens when you’re chasing promotion points? When you’re putting everything on the line? That’s when you collapse. That’s when dreams fall apart. And that’s when all of you,” his hand swept across the room, ”are left with nothing but regret.”

He looked at the faces of the players that had turned uncomfortable at his words before continuing.

”I know some of you still have your doubts about me,” Dawson went on, lowering his tone now, not sharp but steady.

”I’m young. I’m only a year older than Jamie Jones. A year older than James McClean. I know what that looks like to some of you. Maybe it makes you think I don’t deserve your ear. That I don’t have the authority.”

He planted both hands on the desk in front of him, leaning slightly forward. His voice hardened again.

”If that’s your mindset, then you don’t have a place here. Simple. Because there are lads in this squad, in this academy, who’d give everything for these minutes. And if you won’t give me everything, I’ll make room for those who will.”

Leo, in the last row, could feel the tension, and much more after Dawson’s gaze lingered on him just a bit longer.

The latter, on the other hand, let his words hang for a moment before turning back to the board.

His hand lifted, gesturing at the frozen clip of play.

”Cousins,” Dawson called out, not shouting, but direct enough that every head turned toward the midfielder.

On the screen, the moment of hesitation was captured, the ball at Cousins’ feet, Millwall’s pressure tightening.

”You think you’re the man in this situation. You think you’re untouchable. But you refused to release the ball here.”

Dawson tapped the board.

”You kept it. You tried to show you were above the moment. And what happened?”

Nobody answered, because the next clip spoke for itself.

Dawson tapped it again, his voice low but cutting.

”They broke. They ran at us. And in the end, his eyes flicked up toward Cousins, then swept across the squad, ”they got their penalty.”

The room was quiet, players stiff in their seats as Dawson straightened and began walking slowly toward the screen, his hand gesturing for the freeze-frame to roll again.

”Watch closely this time,” he said, his voice sharp but measured. ”See the difference one decision makes.”